


Friendly Neighborhood Healer

by peterwithextrapickles



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, M/M, Moral Ambiguity, Morosexual, Mutual Pining, Other, Slow Burn, eventual identity reveal, eventual relationship i promise, infinity war and everything after never happened, peter parker x gender neutral! reader, unlicensed well-intentioned doctoring
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-03
Updated: 2019-07-14
Packaged: 2020-06-03 04:44:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19456615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peterwithextrapickles/pseuds/peterwithextrapickles
Summary: You’ve been a doctor to the people of Queens under the radar for a few months when an unexpected red and blue superhero lands on your fire escape. On a completely unrelated note, you're close friends with Peter Parker, the only other kid from Queens at Midtown Tech.





	1. Chapter 1

The first time you opened up shop, your neighbor, Alice, had cut her hand badly while cooking, and couldn’t go to the doctor. She couldn’t afford to miss work, let alone pay for a doctor’s visit, and knew you were studying medicine.

Next was a tired mother and her sixteen year old son. They’d heard about you from Alice, and needed a doctor who wouldn’t ask any questions (or for medical insurance). The kid had been shot, and without a word, you cleaned the wound, patched him up, and sent him home.

Your third client had been a mugger, who’d gotten injured in a failed attempt to make rent. They talked your ear off telling you their life story. You merely quipped about “doctor-patient confidentiality,” and did a basic check up. It wasn’t your place to judge. The world could be wicked; a few mistakes didn’t mean someone deserved to die of an easily treatable wound.

After the fifth time, when some low-profile gang member had knocked on your fire escape, you started receiving boxes full of medical supplies once a month (often with under the counter medicine).

You treated everybody who saw you, as best as you could, though not everything was treatable by a teenager. For the more serious issues, you started a community fund for people in need to see a real doctor, and you kept a list of the ones that didn’t overcharge beyond belief (though limited).

You never asked questions, and only listened to what people willingly shared. Soon enough, you were the only person who could walk through Queens safely at night, except for maybe Spider-Man.

He was the one person in all of Queens that you never expected to plop on your rusty fire-escape. You thought if he needed any help medically, he already had something figured out. It never occured to you that he might be avoiding you, until the day he had no other choice.

You’d finished checking the symptoms of a nine year old girl with quite the fever, and her and her father had left through your window. You’d been sterilizing the equipment, when a knock startled you out of your focus. You went to your window, and unlatched it before you realized who it was.

You tugged Spider-Man into your bedroom, and the problem was clear. There was a deep gauge slashed across his torso, tearing through his costume. He stumbled to your bed. “Careful! Let put a towel down under you.” Spider-Man lifted himself up for a minute as you slid the cleanest towel you had available underneath him.

Without prompting, Spider-Man pressed the symbol on his chest. It considerably loosened his costume, and you could pull it down to his waist without issue. The gash looked worse unobstructed. “The mask too. I need to be able to tell if you pass out.”

“No. There has to be another way.” The desperation in his voice startled you.

Everyone who came through your window knew you kept quiet. More than a few people on the run from the police stopped by looking for help. Hell, you’d even had a few people in your “office” grumbling about losing fights with the hero in front of you. You’d grown used to people’s unquestioned trust. “Look, you’re new here. I have a few ground rules. One, I never talk about my clients. Don’t ask about them, and I won’t tell them about you.”

Spider-Man laughed weakly. “Like fight club.”

You half-smiled. “Exactly. Two, I treat everyone, regardless of what they’ve done. If you have an issue with that, leave. Three, You keep violence out of this. Nobody gets attacked here, even if your mortal enemy is passed out on my floor. Four, you have to trust me. I’ll do what I can to accommodate you, but some things are necessary. Right now, you need to trust that I won’t tell anyone who you are, even on the off chance I know you. It’s necessary that I know if you’re passing out or not.”

Spider-Man tried to sit up, but you held him down. You didn’t know much about treating super-humans, but not even he could possibly lose that much blood and be okay. “Anything but that. _Please_.”

You picked up a sterilized rag and pressed it to the wound. It wouldn’t do any good if he bled out while you were trying to think of a way to preserve his identity. “Okay, it’s much less effective, but try humming any song that calms you. Keep your heart rate low, so avoid rock music.”

Spider-Man hummed, lying on your bed, as you focused on putting him back together. First, you took out a fresh pair of surgical gloves. You handed him a pillow to cling to as your poured hydrogen peroxide on his wound. It bubbled, but it wasn’t as bad as it could be. “It looks like it’s going to be a long night for a both of us, Spidey.”

You didn’t recognize the song he was humming, but it sounded vaguely familiar. You worked carefully, every stitch well placed, though his superhuman healing didn’t exactly hurt. Whenever you went into surgery mode, everything else blurred away. You made sure to listen for his calming hum though.

By the time you were wrapping him in gauze, forty-five minutes had passed. You’d taken five water breaks, and gone through a quarter of your remaining supplies. He’d bled through two towels, but he would be okay. He would be okay.

“All done, Spidey. Come back for a check in tomorrow night, I need a better reference of how fast you heal. You also need to take at least tomorrow night off.”

He finally stopped humming. “What if something happens and I could’ve stopped it?”

His eyes were hidden by the mask, but he sounded scared. His voice wavered, and your bed creaked as he shifted on it. You tried to look compassionate. “And if you only get hurt again? Queens can survive a few nights without a hero. If you make the injury worse, you won’t be able to protect anyone. Everything will be okay, Spidey.”

He sighed in resignation. “What time should I swing by?”

You frowned. “I hope you don’t mean literally swing. Walk here as much as you can, we don’t want you tearing your stitches.”

Spider-Man laughed, and it was like cinnamon hot chocolate on a cold day. “Whatever you say, Doc.”

You helped him to his feet, and gave him a spare hoodie to cover the bandage on his walk home. Just like the little girl, Spider-Man climbed out of your window, and evaporated into the darkness.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You get detention with the nerd you take the subway with. Neither of you mind.

There wasn’t enough coffee in the world to drown out the seemingly recurrent sleep-deprivation. Even the kid you took the train with seemed to build up a higher caffeine tolerance against the large cup of coffee he chugged every morning.

Every day, you and the only other kid from Queens at Midtown School of Science and Technology waited in silence for the train. Neither of you spoke much, but you had an understood arrangement where you traded off between catching up on sleep and making sure you both woke up at your stop.

You were pretty sure you’d heard Flash Thompson call him “Peter” at some point, but you weren’t confident enough to ever call him by name. Whatever his name was, he slumped against the window and fell asleep almost immediately.

For a Tuesday morning, most of the commuters looked unusually drowsy. The constant sounds of life had quieted to a dull droll. Before you realized what you were doing, your heavy eyelids lulled you to sleep, blissfully unaware of the trouble to follow.

The loud clacking of heels startled you awake. Peter slept soundly next to you, too peaceful to wake up to the news you’d have to break. He hummed in his sleep, something vaguely familiar, but unrecognizable. You nudged him gently. His eyes opened, and his eyebrows scrunched together in confusion.

“I’m really sorry. I fell asleep too; we’re at E Broadway. We have to take the train back and still switch to the B train. We’re going to be late.”

He sat up hastily. “Crap! We have to make a run for it, there’s probably a train going the other way soon.” Both of you sprinted off the train, up the platform, and around to the other side. Your backpack had never felt heavier. You considered tossing it before remembering how much textbooks cost.

You made it to the other platform out of breath, but Peter looked like he’d hardly broken a sweat. “Again, I’m really sorry. I should’ve stayed awake.”

“Don’t worry about it! It’s completely cool, and I’m only missing gym, so-” Peter said. His eyes were wide, but he tried to stand casually.

“I appreciate you trying to make me feel better, but I messed up. C’est la vie, I suppose.” You checked the board. The next train wouldn’t come for ten minutes, and every second felt like waiting for the gunshot to go off before a race.

You stood next to each other, but at a comfortable distance. Neither of you knew how to break the ice, but names seemed like as good a place as any to start. “So, Peter, right?”

He smiled. “Yeah, Peter Parker.”

“I’m-”

“I know,” Peter interrupted, before realizing how that sounded. “I sound like a stalker, don’t I? I'm really sorry. I just meant- I hear about you around Queens.”

“Oh.” You knew people from all parts of your borough had seen you at some point, but Queens was a big place. It had a large enough population to be a city of its own. “Promise you won’t tell anyone at school?”

Peter nodded and leaned against a tile pillar. “Secret identity?”

You chuckled, and his eyes softened. “I guess you could say that. More avoiding unwanted attention. The police would use some choice phrases for what I do, namely ‘aiding and abetting,’ ‘drug dealing,’ and ‘practicing without a license.’ The faculty listen a lot more than they seem to. I overheard one of the chemistry teachers saying they think Spider-Man is a teenager that goes to our school.”

Peter stumbled to the ground, and you noticed a large dent where his hand was resting. “You okay Peter? I think that dent caused your fall.”

“Um, yeah, just, just fine. Completely cool. You’re probably right, it was just the dent. And- look the train is coming!” Peter jumped up and brushed dust off himself.

You chose to ignore the awkwardness of it all, figuring he was just embarrassed by the fall. He was right, though, a train was coming. The tracks rumbled, and before long, a train screeched to a halt in a deafening roar.

After some passengers departed, you and Peter boarded quietly. This train was too full to sit down, which was probably for the best. You still didn’t trust yourself not to fall asleep. Your hand brushed Peter’s as you reached for the same place on the pole. You retracted your hand and tried to ignore it. “We had AP Bio together freshman year, didn’t we?”

Peter pondered this for a moment. “That’s right! You kept correcting the teacher during the anatomy unit.”

You cringed at the memory. For better or worse, you’d always had a problem with authority, most especially when it was wrong. “And you always had the right answer, no matter the unit. Why didn’t we ever form a study group?”

The train came to an abrupt stop, and because you weren’t holding the pole, you fell. Peter moved quickly, and managed to catch you before you hit the floor. You'd never noticed what a beautiful shade of brown his eyes were or the way his unruly curls tended to flop over his eyes. He pulled you up, and you were in his arms, inches from his face. You felt every muscle in his arms tense around you. The second you took a step back, you felt colder.

“The next stop is ours,” Peter said, refusing to look you in the eyes. It didn’t help matters when the train lurched forward, and you and Peter fell on top of each other. You both scrambled to your feet, stammering as many apologies as humans could possibly utter. When you stood, you both were blushing as red as Spider-Man’s suit.

When you reached your stop, both of your were rambling small talk about New York’s subway system. You boarded your next train discussing your schedules. You had three of the same teachers, and noticed his schedule was much more focused on computer science, and yours on biotech and medicine. Still, you had the same teachers for core classes.

“So, uh, about that study group, should we exchange numbers?”

You handed Peter your phone in response. He typed his number in and gave your phone back. He gave you his phone next, and you put yourself in as a contact. “Text me, though I have the Stark Internship after school most days.”

“And I have my ‘community service’. Does Sunday afternoon work for you?”

Peter nodded, his wide eyes so busy looking at you that he didn’t notice when you reached the school. “C’mon, Parker, I don’t want to be responsible for you missing more than gym.”

You parted ways with a small wave, and headed to your next class, AP World History. You snuck into the back of the classroom, ignoring your teacher’s disappointed stare. You slumped into your chair, and tried not to smile like an idiot when your phone buzzed with a text from Peter Parker.


	3. Chapter 3

Only one client had stopped by your room tonight, which was probably for the better; you didn’t want anyone here when Spider-Man showed up. He had too many enemies, and you weren’t in the mood to test how much people would respect your “no violence” rule. To be honest, aside from Peter Parker texting you bio-tech memes, your day had sucked. You had three detentions to serve for tardiness. Your only saving grace was that you and Peter would watch Captain America, international fugitive, lecture you both on being better citizens together. 

Fortunately, your mom was asleep when the school called to notify her. She worked the night shift at the nearest hospital, and slept most of the day. Your dad worked for a construction company full time. They didn’t need the stress of your truancy. 

You cleared the answering machine and forged signatures on the detention slips. It wouldn’t happen again.

* * *

You’d been sitting in your room, working on an essay for English class when Queens’ favorite son knocked on your window. You gestured for him to come in. When he stepped in, you said, “It’s never locked.”  
“That’s dangerous.” His voice sounded so _young._ He started stammering in his artificially deep voice before you interrupted him for the sake of his own dignity. 

“Why would I worry about my safety when Queens has such a dedicated hero to protect it? Plus, you might’ve noticed that I encourage strange figures to come through my bedroom window.” You wondered if he counted as a strange figure himself. 

Your remark did not help the awkwardness. Instead of saying anything, he sat on your bed and pressed the insignia on his chest. He eased the top half of his costume down his chest. Him immediately getting half naked also did not help the awkwardness. You slipped on a pair of clean surgical gloves and began inspecting the garish scar that had developed. 

“Am I good to patrol?” 

“I’m gonna do a brief physical, and then we’ll see. Someone shouldn’t even be walking around after that kind of injury, but you seem to be an exception.” You were still careful with his torso. You peeled back the bandages and prodded gently to check the texture, but otherwise mostly touched the skin around it. It hardly seemed like he’d been bleeding out on your comforter the night before. 

You asked him to walk around and perform some minor stretches so you could observe how it affected him. “Let me know if anything hurts.” You heard him suck in his breath once or twice, but he didn’t say anything. Like every other “macho” patient you’d had. 

“Spidey, I’m serious. Don’t lie to your doctor.”

“You’re a little young for a doctor.” 

“You’re a little young for a superhero.”

“Uh, how-” He caught himself and resumed his blatantly fake deep voice. “Why would you think I’m young?” You laughed in response. He stumbled back, and in a less fake voice he said, “Did anyone ever tell you that your bedside manner sucks?” 

He slumped over onto your bed. He wrung his hands together, subconsciously tracing the lines on his hands. “Well, on the bright side, you seem to be in excellent condition. Would you mind staying back a little bit? I want to run some tests to see if I could make your super healing work on anyone else. It’s completely up to you, I promise I won’t be offended at all if you say no.”

Spider-Man shrugged. “If it could help someone, I don’t mind at all. What do you need me to do?” 

` “I need some of your blood. I’d store it, and then, whenever the next patient that needs a transfusion and is a match for your blood-type comes in, I’d explain the situation to them. If they agreed, I’d test it out on them. Best case, it works, and I start to work on finding a way to replicate the effects based on samples. Worst case, they just get a normal blood transfusion.” Your eyes gleamed with medical curiosity. You could borrow the lab at school to run extra tests. Maybe you could even ask your biology teacher if you could spend your detentions with her doing lab work. 

_ But then you wouldn’t get to spend more time with Peter.  _

Of course, all that relied on any actual (and speedy) results with Spidey’s blood. Spider-Man stuck his arm out and closed his eyes. 

“Squeamish around needles?” He nodded. “Don’t worry, Spidey. I’ll only take one pint. This will be quick; I promise. Do you know your blood type?”

You had some EldonCards in case of emergency, but they were only mostly effective. Fortunately, NYU offered free blood typing for curious individuals as practice for their lab techs. Many of your frequent patients in more  _ bloody  _ occupations took your advice and got their blood types tested instead of relying on a quick fix from an EldonCard. It helped save more of your O- blood supply (because all your supplies were pretty limited) for those who really needed it. “O-negative.” 

“Are you sure?”

He nodded. “Yeah, we tested them in, uh, grad school classes the other day. For fun.” 

You decided not to mention there was no way he was older than a college freshman, let alone in grad school. “I didn’t mean to insult you by saying I think you’re on the younger side. I get what it’s like to be doing something you’re too young for but have to do anyways.” 

You hoped that underneath his mask he wasn’t frowning. You hoped he understood. You didn’t add anything, and he didn’t reply. Instead, you cleaned your needle and stuck it in his (weirdly visible) vein. You wondered if he could feel the pain with a healing factor like that. As the blood bag slowly filled up, he hummed the same distantly familiar song from the night before. It sounded like trying to remember the details of an old dream. You hoped his skin wouldn’t close up around the needle, although it didn’t seem to. 

Once the blood was collected, you handed him a Spongebob Band-Aid. “Really?”

You shrugged. “They were on sale. Plus my younger patients love them.” And you thought it’d be funny. 

He accepted his fate and put it on himself. The small puncture would probably clot and start sealing over in a few minutes with his healing factor, but he still plastered Patrick’s face responsibly over his forearm. 

“Okay, Spidey. I give you a clean bill of health. If you can, walk home. Oh, and get your blood sugar back up. It’ll be low.” 

“When should I check in to see if it worked?”

“I should be able to find a test subject within the next week. Queens is a bloody borough, but I suppose you know that, don’t you?”

He nodded slowly. “Yeah, I do.” He put the top half of his suit back on and turned to leave. “Thank you, Doc.” He waved goodbye and backflipped into the night. The exit felt a bit over-dramatic to you, but who were you to critique a superhero? 

You put your supplies away and went back to work. 


End file.
